Satoru Gojo had thought Kurosawa Jin wouldn't be able to resist punching him, but he had clearly underestimated the Organization's future top killer... His loyalty to That Person was truly unwavering.
As for why Gojo was acting so arrogant, it was because after inheriting Satoru Gojo's memories, he could naturally feel an extremely powerful force surging deep within his body.
Since he hadn't really been in a fight yet, his hands were itching. He was eager to test himself against Kurosawa Jin. However, seeing that the other boy was ignoring him—simply sitting at the desk, rolling up his sleeve, and wrapping a bandage around a bleeding wound—Gojo didn't want to make a fool of himself. He let out a yawn, shoved his hands into his pockets, and sauntered out the door to explore.
The place was exactly as he suspected: a small, nearly isolated island. Rows of prison-like rooms were lined up, looking as if they had been cast from the same mold. He saw teenagers his age huddling over dry bread, washing it down with water. Some stared blankly into space like robots; others moved in silent, lifeless groups toward a single destination. Gojo could easily tell that none of these kids were to be trifled with—most already had blood on their hands.
Gojo's appearance drew many eyes. They had never seen someone with such a unique look, and since he was a fresh face, they couldn't help but stare. The boy radiated a heavy "stay away" aura, proving he was no pushover. Most people looked away after a moment, but... there are always exceptions.
A strong youth, a head taller than Gojo, came swaggering over with a few lackeys, grinning mockingly. He was covered in tattoos, and his muscles were overdeveloped for his age, causing others to scramble out of his way.
"Yo, you the new kid? You look so soft and pretty, are you gonna get punched to death in tomorrow's combat drill?" The youth sized up Gojo's seemingly frail frame with disdain. "Heh... if you're smart, you'll hand over your future rations to me. That way, you might last a few more months."
Faced with the malicious scrutiny, Gojo lifted his gaze. His eyes pierced the youth like shards of ice as he uttered four words:
"Can trash talk too?"
The surroundings suddenly fell deathly silent. Everyone stopped moving, fixing their eyes on the pair.
"You..."
The muscular youth's face turned a brilliant shade of rage, his teeth grinding. "Ignorant brat. If you're in such a hurry to die, I'll fulfill your wish!" With that, he swung a hand out, aiming to grab Gojo by the throat.
Little did he know, his movements were laid bare under the Six Eyes. Though it was Gojo's first time using this power, it felt miraculously like an extension of his own limbs. He tilted to the left with casual ease; the youth grabbed thin air and nearly faceplanted. Shocked, the youth chalked it up to luck and quickly spun around to throw a punch.
It was a heavy blow; if it landed, it would have broken the bones of an average adult.
However, Gojo stepped to the side, his right leg sweeping out in a horizontal arc. With terrifying force, he kicked the youth squarely in the face. In an instant, the attacker went numb, blood sprayed from his nose and mouth, and he slammed into the ground, unable to crawl back up.
The lackeys hesitated before hurrying to pull him to his feet.
Clutching his bleeding nose, the youth looked at the newcomer he thought would be an easy target. His eyes were filled with pure terror.
"Monster... Freak..."
That level of reaction speed and raw power shouldn't be contained in such a fragile-looking body. This kid... was unnatural.
Gojo was quite pleased with this small test of his abilities.
He looked down at the kneeling youth, scanned the onlookers, and said proudly: "What are you looking at, dregs? Scram."
The youth didn't dare provoke the "freak" again and slowly retreated. The other children who had been watching now looked at Gojo with a completely different expression—one of deep wariness.
Clap, clap, clap.
The sound of applause rang out.
Gojo turned to see a tall, middle-aged man with a face like a hawk.
He looked at the white-haired boy with admiration: "As expected of the one That Person values. Truly extraordinary." Then, he scanned the crowd coldly: "You all know the penalty for brawling outside of combat drills, don't you?" He waved a hand, and several men in black—security personnel armed with firearms—approached and seized the youth who had attacked Gojo.
The youth screamed in terror, struggling wildly.
"Ah!! Instructor, I was wrong! Don't... I don't want to die! When I beat up the other rookies, you always turned a blind eye! Why are you doing this today for this kid?!"
Bang!
A single gunshot echoed. A bullet hole appeared in the youth's forehead, and he moved no more.
Gojo had wanted to teach him a lesson... but he hadn't intended to kill him.
Watching this, a wave of discomfort hit him. He had to remind himself that these were just manga characters and there was no need to care. To maintain his persona, he couldn't show any weakness.
He took a few deep breaths internally. The cold composure of the Gojo Clan Head took over. He fixed his clear blue eyes on the man who had ordered the execution: "Your name?"
The man ignored his arrogant tone and replied: "I am Tequila. You may also call me Instructor."
Tequila? The "genuine wine" fodder who died in an explosion after only one appearance? He didn't expect the guy to actually have the skills to be an instructor.
Gojo figured this man must know about his connection to the Boss, which explained the friendliness.
"You've just arrived. There are things you need to know." Tequila led Gojo away, talking as they walked. From the detailed introduction, Gojo gained a better understanding of his situation.
This island was a remote property of the Black Organization located in Italy. Coastal, deserted, and specifically designed to breed true assassins. The Organization selected orphans from various countries and subjected them to militarized management and comprehensive killing training from a young age. This included cold and hot weapons, physical conditioning, hand-to-hand combat, and defensive techniques.
There were regular free-sparring drills, team exercises, and a once-a-year "Killing Duel" where everyone fought with everything they had, regardless of casualties. After three years, the best would emerge to become official codenamed members.
As for the rest, they might become low-level members, but they were more likely to die on the island.
It was, quite literally, a battle royale to raise the strongest "poison."
In the original series, who else but the "Workaholic" could have earned a codename under these conditions?
Once the briefing was over, Tequila showed Gojo the training grounds and told him he was free to practice with firearms and weapons. After some words of encouragement, he sent him back to the dormitory. Gojo couldn't help but reflect on how quickly life changed—one moment he was a law-abiding youth, and now he was pitted against a nest of malicious kids.
Despite his internal griping, Gojo intended to take the next three years seriously. After all, in a world that might have a supernatural side, he didn't know if he'd encounter strange enemies.
Though... everyone else feels so weak...
He wondered what level Kurosawa Jin was at.
That night, the golden-haired youth suddenly felt a strange chill. He looked toward the glowing blue eyes in the dark, his face darkening as he squeezed his eyes shut to ignore him.
[Hehe, the little workaholic is so shy...]
Gojo was amusing himself when the system's mechanical voice chimed in.
[Ding-dong! Today's settlement: 250 Impression Points. They have been added to the Mall, please accept.]
Gojo quickly checked his panel: "Where did 250 points come from?"
"100 points from the story character Vermouth, 100 points from Kurosawa Jin, and 50 points from Tequila. Total: 250 points."
"I barely said a word to the workaholic, and it's that high? What kind of impressions are these?"
"Estimation: Mostly 'Intent to Kill' and 'Disgust'."
"..."
Sharing a room with someone full of killing intent... was he going to get his throat slit in his sleep?
But thinking about it another way... if he kept making the workaholic angry, would the Impression Points just keep flowing?
I found it... the perfect sheep to shear!